It was two o'clock.
He sat in a vacant seat and took out two hundred, getting twenty-dollar chips. He feverishly waited to start in with fifty or hundred dollar chips, but slow and easy does it, nothing flashy, a gradual buildup. That was the mark of the consistently lucky winner – gradual.
On the first hand he had sixteen, the dealer twenty. He read the top card – a bust. He shrugged. He won the next four in a row, purposely losing the fifth so as not to push it. That's how he'd do it, by degrees. Win some, lose some – win the big ones, lose the small ones, suck them in. He drank scotch on the rocks as he played, to steady his nerves. No gulping, just a constant sipping. By four o'clock he'd moved up to fifty-dollar chips and was three thousand ahead. Glancing around, he spotted Sally at a far table. She met his eyes very briefly and looked away. He wasn't the slightest bit worried about her part in it. She had nerves of ice, better than his by far. There was only one hot streak in Sally's cold blood and that was for him and him alone.
At five, Lane loomed up behind the dealer. Jack lit a cigarette, the scotch steadying his fingers. The sonofabitch looked exactly as he did five years ago, cold-eyed, grim, forbidding. The manager watched the play for a few minutes, but Jack wasn't bothered. It was standard routine to move around the tables and to linger at the ones where someone was winning big.
Then he became aware it wasn't the action Lane was watching. It was him. The wild urge to get up and leave hammered in his heart but he knew that was the dumbest thing he could do. Shit, he couldn't recognize him after all these years, not after the plastic surgery, not after the hundreds of dealers he'd hired and fired. No way.
Then why was he staring at him?
Jack snapped his fingers and a cocktail waitress appeared. He ordered a double. He had an easy win on the next round and deliberately dropped two hundred. He dropped another two hundred, and he could sense the relief in Lane. That was the trouble with these pricks, they acted as though every cent they lost came out of their own pockets instead of the big boys'.
But still Lane watched him.
Jack lit another cigarette and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. Fear was beginning to creep up his stomach, like an icy mountain climber scaling a wall. Fuck that grim-eyed bastard, he was going to take this one before his eyes, for four hundred.
And he did.
His confidence began to sweep back along with the scotch glowing in his nerves. What the fuck was he anyway, a man or a rabbit? Let the cocksucker stare at him all night, he didn't care. So he was a heavy winner, so what? So he looked familiar, so what? Up his chilling ass, that's what.
And still Lane watched him.
And ten Jack did what he should have done. Ten minutes seemed like ten nerve-racking million years ago.
He looked Lane squarely back in the eye. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twelve seconds.
And Lane turned away.
Ahhhh sweet motherfucking victory! Jack ordered a triple scotch, exultation rising in his chest, the a flag at full salute. He'd read that somewhere, that if somebody put the evil eye on you, you gave it right back to the bastard and stared him down, showed him your hairy balls. He was like King Kong now, wanting to stand up and beat his chest with snarling triumph. When the waitress brought his drink, she waved his money away, telling him it was on the house. He tipped her a ten.
But the free drink wasn't Lane conceding anything. It was house policy to buy winners – never losers – drinks, and the more you won, the more lavish they got with their booze. The drunker you got, the more reckless you became, and if you weren't careful they took everything back plus your spare change. Mote than one poor asshole who'd won a fortune had been sucked into losing it back, sometimes falling off his seat in the process.
Jack sipped the drink, savoring it all the more. Well, fuck you, Lane he thought happily. In the first place, Jack never got drunk. In the second, he was so fucking nervous and tense deep down, that alone would keep him alert and sober. And in the third place, there weren't any feathers on his tail – he glanced back just to make sure – so he wasn't exactly a turkey.
By nine o'clock Jack was eight thousand ahead.
And from his swivel leather chair high in the center of the casino, Lane watched him carefully.
At the same time three tables away, Sally scooped up her winnings, picked up her purse and headed for the bar. She was six thousand ahead and was much more cautious than Jack. She wasn't a gambler, didn't have that crazed, ferocious heart, and she felt like bursting into tears every time she had to give the house back a few hundred.
She sipped her martini, watching Lane watch Jack in the high mirror behind the bar. Oh shit, she thought she was going to faint when he'd stood behind the dealer, watching her husband with those death-eyes. And then she'd seen Jack boldly stare him down and the harsh, bitter love she felt for her handsome hustling husband spread throughout her jaded system like a fatal disease. He had balls! She'd always felt he was a weakling deep down, but he actually had the guts in a showdown. And she loved him for it, at least as much as her cynical feelings could allow.
Lane shifted restlessly in his chair and swiveled away from table four. So the guy was on a winning streak, so what? It happened all the time. It was, in fact, very good publicity for the house. Word spread like wildfire, a crowd would be gathering soon and greed, their major commodity, would be sparked into a blaze. In fact, the more the sleek character won the better it would be for the house in the long run.
But Lane was bothered. There was something about the guy, his eyes, his mouth… he didn't exactly recognize him and yet, a faint beep-beep had gone off in the back of his mind; and now it beeped irritably away, a constant thorn in his side.
His phone buzzed.
"Lane here."
"Grogan here. Table one is down about six thou. Broad in the red dress, hard face, stacked. She's at the bar now."
"Okay thanks, Grogan."
The pit boss hadn't bothered mentioning table four. He knew Lane was watching that one. Lane's eyes scanned the bar, picked out Sally. He frowned. His instincts told him she was a hooker, nothing cheap, but still… Lane's instincts were never wrong, not after twenty-five years in the hard, vicious arena of professional gambling.
So what if she was a hooker? As long as she didn't hustle her trade in the Green Wheel she was welcome. Their money was as crisp and green as anyone else's. He scanned her sensuous tits and lush ass and stunning legs. Christ, she had beautiful legs, long, silken, tapered, one of the nicest pair he'd ever seen, if her face weren't so harshly defined, she'd be a knockout. She was picking up her purse now and returning to the seat, which no one else had taken. The action wasn't heavy enough tonight, except for those two tables. She brought stacks of gold hundred-dollar chips out of her purse, set them up and began betting. And winning.
Lane swiveled back to table four. Sleek character was still at it, mountains of chips piled in front of him. He was definitely a hustler, probably scored heavily on women with his smooth looks.
Two babies losing, two hustlers winning.
His phone buzzed.
"Lane here."
"It's Shawn, Lane." She didn't have to tell him, because the second he heard her girlish sweet voice, his prick began tingling sharply. It was her night off and she was home with his wife.